


scenes from a marriage

by egmcgregors



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Sex, Unprotected Sex, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29989251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmcgregors/pseuds/egmcgregors
Summary: javier peña is a dea agent, teetering on the edge of finding pablo escobar every second of the day, and yet always being so far away from it too. as if life is not complicated or risky enough as he partakes in this search, javier finds himself falling in love amidst all of the chaos. these are the scenes of a marriage, with all of it’s trials and tribulations, set in colombia, circa 1980–1993.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Javier Peña/Reader
Kudos: 22





	1. the beauty that lurks

The designs of misfortune carve themselves in the woodwork that is Colombia, marking and scarring a beautiful country for the sake of one man’s empire.

Pablo is everywhere—he is the country. Every newspaper boasts his mug, every politician knows his name, and every citizen somehow becomes mere background characters in this over-sized game of cat and mouse that the government is engaging in with him.

The color of the country is not lost, though; it’s citizens are here, it’s traditions prosper. The thick blanket of tragedy that threatens to spill over has yet to strangle the beauty of it all. Corruption and drugs and lies—they are all nothing in a land full of green, so wondrous and large and bright when not saturated by the workings of humanity.

Sometimes though, in the smaller corners of the country where humanity lingers, beauty finds itself tucked away, like in cries of a baby born to a couple who care immensely, not just about themselves, but it all; in familial dinners that still take place and pride themselves on the joy they still bring; and even in the subtle flirtation of two young people in a bar.

It’s eye meeting eyes, glancing too long as their owners try to calculate the situation. Then come the grins, first hers, and then not too long after, his. Then the sips of liquid courage, the nervousness of approaching each other, and the awkward first words. It’s all followed by the hesitance of sharing too much and not enough, and the assuring way each of them feel safe in the dingy bar that has been open for decades. Distanced—even for just a couple of hours—from the man who represents the country and his crimes, beauty finds itself wrapped deliciously around the newfound relationship of Javier Peña and this woman he will marry. He doesn’t know it yet, doesn’t immediately feel the tale-tale signs of love, nor does she, but that is what makes this scene even more enticing; it is merely human interaction and human desire at work, no other underlying motives. 

“What do you do, Javier Peña?” she says. The beer in her hand swishes against its glass enclosure as she circles it above the table, and she watches him with a smile. He sits adjacent from her, leaned comfortably back in the chair. This is not his first rodeo; he is so good at this bar chat now that he’s sure he could list it amongst his professional accomplishments.

“Janitorial staff at the Embassy.” His brows perk, challenging her to question the statement in a playful sort of way, but curiously she does not. He moves on. “What about you?”

“Periodista.” She offers, raising her eyebrows this time. He does not challenge her statement either, but there’s a dangerous likeliness to hers, and he won’t forget it. They will not discuss politics, or the Embassy, and he will go to her place, not his.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Mine’s green. What’s your opinion on Fleetwood Mac?”

“I’ve heard of them.” He takes a swig of beer. “Why don’t you have an accent when you speak English?”

“Why don’t you have an accent when you speak Spanish?”

He laughs. “Do you like Fleetwood Mac?”

She grins wider. “Love them. In fact, I think we should go listen to an album or two of theirs at my house right now. What about you?”

He nods.

It is that easy; it is that beautiful.

——

Much to his surprise, she does put on a Fleetwood Mac record when they get to her apartment. It is one he’s owned, a favorite of a woman he had loved in a different life. Now, he and she are every bit of the 2,514 miles between Texas and Colombia apart—perhaps even more than that. He hasn’t the faintest clue what she is doing, but a hint of remorse and pain washes over him as he ponders it.

“This is my favorite,” the woman speaks, and Javier returns from his reverie.

His eyes train on the spinning record, letting the song envelope them. They stand apart, both at opposite sides of the player. He’s got a beer she’s fetched from the fridge but itches for a cigarette. It’s a bit awkward too, just standing around listening like this, so he fills the space between them by taking a few steps forward. He takes note of the way her body stills against the phantom of his frame; even with inches still separating them, the warmth of their bodies work to close the space between them. Without touching, they have, and she responds in a manner that makes him want to reach out and touch her for real. He wants to draw the same quiet breath out of her that had just escaped, to evoke the same alertness that had filled her in that moment. She wants him to do it too, and she’s more eager than he is—or maybe it’s just because her hands are both empty and he holds the chilled bottle of beer—so she stands nearer and presses her lips onto his own first. It is quick, just a test. She finds she’s never been good at leading.

Javier sets the bottle by the record player, freeing his hands so he can cup them around the frame of her face. He then kisses her hungrily, lust filling his body quicker than he anticipates. She lets her own hands grip at the sides of his button up, holding his body against her own as they begin to discover each other. Lips leave lips, and he presses them back against her neck. He peppers the exposed flesh with kisses, nibbling gently enough not to warrant a bruise, but aggressively enough to bring a moan to her lips. Her fingers rake through his hair and he begins to undo the buttons of her blouse. The more flesh that is exposed to him, the more of a desire he feels to touch it all; he wants to take in every piece of it, graze his digits against it, press his lips delicately on it. It feels like he just about does, too, by the time her shirt hits the ground.

“Do you have a condom?” he asks, hands reaching to grope her still covered breasts.

“No wasting time with you, huh?” she teases. “But yes. Sit on the couch and I’ll go get one.”

He nods his head, and doesn’t protest her not letting him follow her into her room even though he wanted to. Fucking on couches has begun to get a bit old and so has he; the lower part of his back will undoubtedly feel this in the morning.

He undoes his own shirt and unbuckles his belt, sliding off his clothes and letting them rest in a ball on the chair to the side of the couch. As instructed, he settles on the couch, half naked and aroused at the idea of what will happen next. She is not long in the room she has disappeared to, and when she returns, she is fully naked.

Straightening on the couch, Javier watches her move over to him and he feels an angry, burning desire to bury all of himself in her. She is stunning, bathed in the dim light of a lamp, and the tent that has formed in his boxers is all the encouragement she needs to initiate the interaction once more.

She finds something intoxicating about the way a man collapses against his own desires—especially when she is the one creating them—so when she drapes both of her over his own, and watches the cracks of his cool facade shed away, she’s sure she’s never felt better in her entire life.

He begins kissing her again, and lets her hands focus on his hair again. His own press into the curve of her sides, pushing her closer and closer and closer to his frame until she can feel him entirely against the side of her thigh. She gasps into his mouth.

“Fuck,” she says, pulling away for air. His eyes cloud with desire and he takes the opportunity to flip them. He lays her back and without a second thought, he finds himself pressing his lips down to her thigh, then on the inside of that too, and then his mouth connects with her clit and she’s his, oh god she’s his. As much as she had liked seeing him come undone, she likes the way he makes her come undone, too.

Eyes flutter shut as his tongue works against her; he is slow and teasing at first, making her buck her hips against his mouth in a pleading way, asking without saying for more. He presses them back down onto the couch and he increases his speed. She can feel the desire rise in the pit of her stomach and her thighs begin to fight to close around him but as if he anticipated this, his hands have rested against them both, holding them still. When she opens her eyes and peers down the length of her body to meet his eyes, she cannot help but come against him. He continues to flick his tongue until she cannot bare it any longer.

“Javier.”

“Do you have that condom?” he asks again, rising from his place between her. His lips shine with the gloss of her juices, but he wipes it away as she nods her head and opens her hand to reveal a crumbled packet. He laughs lightly, taking it from her.

He slides his underwear off and does not bother to let it find the pile on the chair. He’s too focused on wrapping the latex around his length, and on getting between her legs once more.

The sight of him exposed like that ignites something entirely primal inside of her, and she feels in her the desire to let him have her anyway he wants. All he has to do is ask, she thinks, watching him begin to mount her again. Before he does anything though, he lets his fingers travel back down to her core.

“Tell me you want to fuck me, pretty baby,” he demands, letting his fingers tease around her entrance.

“I need to fuck you.”

A deep groan falls from his lips as a moan escapes from her, and he knows by the way she wraps around his fingers with ease that she is.

“I wanna fuck you, too, baby.” He responds, letting his fingers curl inside of her and press gently until she begins to move restlessly against him. As much as he has begun to adore the way she moans when he does this, he needs to be inside of her.

Taking the slick from her on his fingers, he lubes the condom and lines himself up to her entrance. For the fourth time tonight, they make eye contact again and as he buries himself in her, everything in the world feels just fine. Actually, everything feels better than just fine; as he finds a steady pace to move inside of her, he cannot help but let hushed curses escape from him, both in English and Spanish, because it overwhelms him. He feels this with his entire being. He feels the rock of her hips as she reaches up to meet his pace in his soul, feels the way she repeats his name as he slides in and out in his core, feels the way she takes his fingers in his mouth when he reaches up to graze her features everywhere. God, she is perfect. He knows so very little about her, but he wants to know everything, wants to lose his entire self right here forever. This is the hazy beginning of an orgasm talking, he knows, but it’s why he does this, and why she does too. In this little apartment of hers, on this couch, they are free to care only about the chambers of their own desires for a while. This is the Colombia she adores, and the Colombia he is trying to liberate.

“Come for me, Javi,” she says and he is quick to release inside of her, unable to hold it back any longer. She feels him twitch inside of her and she allows his body to mold into her own as he rides out his high. When it is all finished, they are a clutter of sweaty limbs, their breath rising and falling in sync as they take in what they have just done. No immediate regret is felt by either parties, but Javier feels the itch for a cigarette again.

“Can I smoke in here?” he asks, his head still leaning against her chest. He likes the way her heart thuds the way it is, likes that he’s done that to her.

“Be my guest,” she answers. Fingers fiddle once more with his brown locks, and she notes the curls that form at the base of his neck. Then she notes the way his back looks, all the tiny scars and marks that pepper the tanned skin. Her fingers trace a scar that’s nearest to his shoulder, and it’s so gentle that Javier feels himself wanting to return here already.

He doesn’t rise from his place on top of her for a few moments, basking in this post-coital affection. Secretly, he yearns for this, and looks for it in all of the beds he falls in, but finds it takes coming back time and time again to receive it. He wants to press into the women he fucks, wants to kiss away the marks of his fingertips and lose himself in their beings just as much as he does when he’s in them, but he doesn’t want to say it. But here she is, just letting him do it the first time, welcoming it. She must be as lonely as he is. Must yearn for it too.

“Want to share one?” She breaks the silence. “A cigarette. I haven’t smoked in a while, but I could go for one.”

“Yeah.” He nods, peeling himself off of her to fetch the pack in his pants. He lights the cigarette and takes a drag off of it first, before handing it to her, then he begins dressing.

She watches as she lets the smoke fill her lugs, but does not say anything until the smoke billows out of her mouth.

“Stay the night.”

He freezes, digits resting over the belt that he’s begun to put on. “Okay.”

He settles back on the couch, close to her, and takes the cigarette from her hands. “Are you free most nights?”

“I can be,” she answers with a grin. He laughs, and it’s real, honest laugh, a laugh that makes him feel lighter.

“Good.”

And it is; it’s very, very good. He will come back, and she will let him, and for moments at a time, they will embrace the beauty of a country that’s being held captive by an evilness, and they won’t address it. They are, without really knowing it, a part of the heart that keeps it moving, the country. Perhaps this–the simple act of fucking and feeling–are more important than what either of them are doing at work to end it, because it is human and it is lovely, and it keeps them solid and young so they can fight restlessly against a machine that threatens to kill them.

This is the first scene from a marriage, even if it isn’t quite one yet.


	2. the art of sweeping things under the rug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> marriage requires sacrifice; theirs requires a little more than most

Wedding bands can vary in weight depending on the sort of week you’re having, she finds. Conveniently light, sometimes–nearly invisible, as if intertwined with oneself–and then, impossibly dense at others. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, she tells herself, but she’s on no throne, and there is no crown. It’s just her and Javi, and the elopement that tied them together. 

The ‘70s had faded silently into the ‘80, and it’s easy to feel in love when the future looks promising. _Well_ –maybe promising is **too** generous of a word for what they had felt then; perhaps **uncertain** is better. It wasn’t the sort of uncertain that fills one with dread either, the kind that leaves them in the dark with no flashlight. No, it was the uncertainty that felt good; the sort that made them think whatever was offered in the decade they’d not yet painted with plans was going to be great. It was promises of catching Pablo, promises of a promotion, promises of a proper marriage in the country they’d come to love in their own separate and shared ways. It was realists sharing one optimistic view in a world that seemed so void of them, and now, as she sits at the dinner table in her apartment, looking at the thin band on her finger, she wonders if they’d rushed into it

Her mother told her a **mal tiempo, buena cara**. In bad times, keep a good face. Just grin and bare it, wait for the uneasiness of the life they were living now to trickle into the marriage she anticipated, but she isn’t sure what sort of marriage she was anticipating. She had understood that there were going to be hardships, but she had welcomed them then because she thought they were going to be hardships they would endure together. They weren’t doing a very good job at the together. 

It isn’t that she doesn’t love him. She has an unwavering love for him, but the absence of his being in her life has begun to create a festering wound in her heart. She’s torn between asking him to never leave again—to quit it all and stay wrapped in bed with her, pretending the horrors outside of their utopia didn’t exist—and saying nothing at all. _**Grinning and bearing.**_

He’s a good man. A _great_ man, actually. He’s gentle, funny. A little too stressed for his own good most of the time, and a bit grumpy until he settles somewhere, but he’s exactly what she needs, and everything that could break her if he so wanted it, too. And she knows he never would want that, but she isn’t sure he knows he can either, because if he did, then he was tiptoeing dangerously close to that line. 

Sighing, she shakes her head, dismissing it all. 

The afternoon has begun to fade into the evening, and the cool summer wind blows a gentle breeze into her home. Javier said he wouldn’t be working late at the Embassy tonight, and she had told him she’d cook dinner, but the eagerness that had overtaken her then had been worn by the sight of his wedding band on her dresser. It was the thing that made hers seem so heavy. The thing that made her want to cry, really, and it was so silly, but she could not help the angry ball of frustration and confusion that formed at the sigh of it, or the way it had turned into the lump in her throat. 

She yearns for the days when it was just fucking—the way they hadn’t exchanged anything personal so nothing could be personal. She misses the way he would call her, flustered, at all hours of the night and the way she’d always open her door for him, and they’d kiss passionately and fuck roughly and explore each other over and over. 

But really, she doesn’t want that, either. She doesn’t know what she wants. 

She hears the jangle of keys, hears the latch open, but she doesn’t turn to meet him. Instead, she’s lit a cigarette, and she’s staring out the window, looking at how the sun shadows the town. She puffs away at the cigarette and he says nothing when he enters. He just throws his keys on the counter and then moves quietly over to her, hands falling to her tense shoulders. She hates the way she leans into him too; how effortlessly the anger ebbs.

She looks up at him, and he smiles gently. He looks worn, as though he’s fighting something that she won’t learn until the early hours of the morning, when he’s spent from spent from sex and the general excitement that paints all of his days. Javi is interesting in that way—not emotionally stunted, but hesitant. 

“You didn’t make dinner?” he asks while pushing her hair away from her neck, pressing his lips there quickly. He nuzzles against her for a beat, taking in her scent, feeling the warmth of her against him in gratitude. He is spent, and he’s wanted nothing more than to come here. Doesn’t even really care that she’s not made him dinner, just said it to hear her. 

“I didn’t,” she responds, more softly than she likes. Her heart is tender for him, kind naturally because his being warrants it. She wants to yell, but she can’t because she loves him so goddamn much. 

“S’okay,” he mumbles. Javi moves away from her, slipping off his jacket and sitting it on the chair. “We can order something later if you want.”

She nods, putting out the cigarette. “When do you have to go back in?”

“Six tomorrow morning. What about you?”

“I took tomorrow off.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “¿Por qué?” 

“Because,” she shrugs. “Only so much depressing material you can write until it starts to wear you down.”

“You know I said—“

She cuts him off. “I don’t want to live off your paycheck. I know what you said but I’m happy doing what I do. Just—“ she pauses, struggling to think. “—not all of us can give our lives over to the cause all the time.”

She meant that, meant that entirely, and knows he feels it by the way his features settle into a look of pure nothingness. Stoned face, giving nothing. She’s sorry for it, but can’t say it. He doesn’t ask for her to. 

“Cruelty doesn’t look so good on you, baby,” he tries to tease, but it comes out flat and serious. She bites at her lip, and turns her head to the window, back to the city, trying not to cry. 

“Are you angry with me?” 

He’s a good detective, isn’t he?

“Javi, I don’t want to fight.” 

“You are angry with me.”

She sighs heavily. “No, I’m not.”

“You are, and I wish you’d just say why.”

“It doesn’t even matter, Javi,” she dismisses it with a simple shrug of her shoulders. “You’ve been at work all day and—“

“Is it because I work so much?” he interrupts. 

“Goddamnit, Javier, I’m not fucking angry with you!” she shouts. Shouts like she is angry with him. Silence ensues and she wants to crawl in a hole and disappear completely. 

“You left your wedding ring,” she admits quietly, half out of remorse, half because she can’t stand the way he’s looked down at the table and not looked back up. Or how he sits like he’s torn between fleeing and staying. “But it really doesn’t matter, and I don’t know why it bothers me so much because I know you…you don’t mean to hurt me.”

“No,” he shakes his head. He still does not look at her, focusing on a line in the table. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Javi, I said it didn’t matter.”

“But it _does_.” He finally looks up. “It matters if it makes you angry with me. I left it because I forgot, that’s all.”

“I said it doesn’t matter.”

“You never fucking fight me.”

“There’s no reason for it,” she replies. 

“There _is_ reason for it.” 

“Javi, please. I don’t get you for very long and this is not how I want to spend it.”

“Stop doing that.” 

“What?” Confusion paints her features. 

“Running from it. Fight with me.”

“Why do you want to fight so fucking bad? When you’d turn into such a fucking masochist.”

She feels that lump in her throat again, feels the way it wants to give way and lets it all go the way he’s requesting. Fills the bitterness creep into her system the way she hates. 

“I’m not a masochist,” he replies, “You’ve obviously got shit to say, so say it.”

“Fuck you, Javi,” she chokes, blinking back tears now. She definitely did not want this. 

She gets up to move, but he grasps onto her wrist. 

“ _Don’t_ run away,” he repeats. He’s angry too. 

“Let me go,” she spits out spitefully. He has such a loose hold on her that she doesn’t even need his permission to escape from it, but it’s the concept more than anything. He does let go, but she doesn’t move. 

“I didn’t want to fight with you.” 

Her cheeks begin to heat with anger, and it’s the worst sort of anger, the kind that makes her sob because she can’t contain it. It’s an anger that feels unfair, and she can never beat it; the tears begin to fall rapidly. 

Sympathy tugs at his heart; his steely resolution falls as quickly as it has come up. “I know,” he acknowledges. “We’ve got to fight, sometimes, though.”

“I know, but I don’t want to. I only see you two days a week and I don’t want to spend one of them yelling at you,” she confesses. “All I want you, Javi. Is that so much to ask?”

It’s his turn for shame to fill him. He knows why that can’t be—knows it’s because there’s things she can’t know and having her in a building full of DEA agents comprises the both of them. She’s in danger just wearing that wedding band on her finger; God forbid any of those fucking narcs ever found out they were married. He shouldn’t have done it, married her, but he could not help it; a sort of selfishness that was not uncharacteristic had pushed the boundaries within him, and he decided the good outweighed the bad. But, maybe it didn’t. 

He stands and envelops her frame in a hug. She sighs into his chest and wraps her arms tightly around him. She only wants to make him happy and to be happy with him. Why did it seem so hard? When this all began, it felt so easy, so nice and now it felt hard. 

Javier kisses her softly, just a peck and she feels lighter because of it. As he goes to pull away, she pulls him closer again, pressing their lips together. He responds, a hand resting on her hip and the other on the small of her back, holding her against him. She initiates a deeper kiss, swiping her tongue against his lower lip. They stand like this for a few minutes, kissing and basking in the presence of each other the way they’d both desired. 

It is Javi who pulls back from their kiss, needing air and wanting to take it further—just not here. In the beginning of their relationship, when it was just fucking, sex felt something they had to do everywhere; on the couch, on the table, on the counter, in the shower, on the ground, even in front of the window. And they still did that, still let spontaneity sway them, but they’d settled into more comfortable routines too. He liked fucking her in their bed, the one thing they always agreed was undeniably both of theirs wherever it resided. It was their bed so as long as they both fell there to sleep. 

He doesn’t even have to speak, just nods his head in the general direction, before she’s tugging him along. 

She sits down on the bed and peers up at him, eyes still red from the tears. He feels awful about it, but doesn’t have it in him to say it. Can’t, for some reason. It’s lost between his brain and his tongue, but it finds its way out through the gentle way he presses her onto her back and lets his lips kiss her everywhere. He kisses her face, her lips, then her neck, and then he goes further, pushing her shirt up and pressing his plush lips against the newly exposed flesh. Then he then he’s undoing her pants, kissing the spot where her panties usually begin. He offers her a mischievous grin, and she smiles back at him. 

“You really didn’t want to fight, did you?” 

She shakes her head. “No, you fuck, I didn’t,” she laughs. 

He continues his trail down her body, and she lifts her hips so he can remove her pants. Javier presses his lips on her hips, on the flesh directly above the pubic bone. Then, he presses them on the inside of her thighs, teasingly slow when he gets closer to her core, and she whines out of protest when he spots. Her eyes flicker down to see why, and when her eyes met his, he presses his tongue against her clit. A moan escapes her and she grasps onto the bedspread. Javi is encouraged by this, swiping his tongue against her folds, dipping his tongue into her, tasting her—really, truly admiring every part of her—before pressing his tongue back onto her clit. He begins to suck gently, and she writhes without control beneath him. A trained expert at this now, he anchors her down by wrapping an arm around each thigh, holding them in place. 

“Javi—“ she manages to say, just as the tension begins to build in her stomach. “Oh Javi, baby, faster.” 

He obliges and she is quick to find her release in a matter of seconds. Javi remains in between her thighs, licking up her arousal. He’s gotten good at this, knows the way she likes it, knows how to do it even when she can’t tell him.

She carts a hand through his hair, tugging gently, and he removes his lips from her finally. Despite her worn state, she’s quick to rise and meet him, uncaring about her arousal on his face as she presses their lips together once more. He kisses her back with more need than he previously had, his jeans feel tighter and more constricting than usual. 

“I want to ride you,” she whispers against his lips, and he nods eagerly. Her fingers work at his belt, and then the button of his jeans, hardly making it past the zipper before she slides her hand into his pants and palms his already hard member. He winces against her lips and she can’t help but grin; this is her Javi. This is the marriage she wants. 

“Te amo,” she says, beginning to tug at his jeans. He assists her, pushing them down all the way. 

“Take off your shirt,” he demands, tugging at the fabric. She obeys him, throwing the shirt in the same place his pants fell, before he tugs her closer to him. A gasp falls from her lips as she mounts him, the warmth of his length agonizing so close to her heat. She reaches between them, lining his cock up to her entrance. Eyes connect as she fills herself with him, and his mouth falls open, desperate to moan but too choked by the feeling of her around him. She moves slowly, not wanting to release the warmth of him yet in favor of forming a steady pace to ride him. Javi, however, is growing increasingly aroused beneath her, and can’t help the way he guides her on his cock. “Please,” he begs, brown eyes dark with desire. She nods, and they move together, her hips following his hands instructions. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, watching the way he slides in and out of her. “I’m not going to last much longer, baby.”

Distracted by her own desire, she merely nods his confession, grinding herself on him until she fills the beginnings of another orgasm, the sweet release inches away. He doesn’t lift her from himself now, wanting to savor this feeling for a few moments longer. “Te amo,” he finally responds back, a deep groan releasing at the way she squeezes around him. She grinds against him, and he lets her, allowing his finger to undo the bra they’d both been too eager to take off as she does. It falls slowly down her chest, and as soon as it exposes her nipple, he’s quick to wrap his mouth around it. This earns a throaty moan from her, and she swears her orgasm isn’t ever going to end. 

He pulls the fabric down her arms completely before turning them over, never leaving her once. He is desperate now, denied his orgasm too long, and the heat is pooling viciously in his stomach. He thrusts roughly into her, a whine emitting from her lips when he does, but she lifts her hips to meet him the second time he does it. 

“Faster, baby,” she encourages, and he presses his fingers into her hips so hard that he’s certain the skin will bruise as he thrusts into her for the last time. 

He slides out of her, and with a few more rough tugs on his cock, he’s releasing on her stomach. He wants to lay beside her, flat and lifeless as his lugs play catch up (it’s the fucking cigarettes, but he can’t stop them), but he resists the urge. He leans towards the bed stand and grabs a handful of tissues, wiping himself and her clean of his cum. She lays still, watching him intently, a soft, appreciative smile embedding in her features. 

“I miss you a lot, you know,” she says. He throws the tissues away in the bin across the room, and she takes in his frame; admires the way his back looks, the broadness of his shoulders, even his ass. He’s a good looking man, on top of everything, and she’s happy to be his wife. She just wishes it was easier. 

“I do know. I miss you too.”

He slides back into bed, uncaring of his nakedness, and she uncaring of hers. He pulls her bare body against him, and she wraps a leg around her hip. She traces his lips with her finger and he takes her hand, kissing the palm of it. 

He loves her, loves her so goddamn much that the guilt of the wedding ring on her dresser eats away at him. Bites and bites because the way he’s so casually lied about why he left it, acted as if it wasn’t deliberate. Doesn’t want to tell he’s afraid they’ll find out if she doesn’t, doesn’t want to have to worry about if she’s okay or if they have anymore than he does already. He calls her every night, checks in at the same time so he knows nothing is wrong, and she knows he does this, but there’s a thousand things she doesn’t see. A thousand things he doesn’t want her to see, either, like the way he left the wedding band because he’s afraid or the way he drives past her house every night before he goes to his, just to ensure it’s still there, even though he knows it is. Doesn’t want her to see the anxiety that fills him every time he hears about a bombing or the way he can’t sleep when he goes away. He wants their marriage to be perfectly normal, wants it all to be perfectly normal. Colombia deserves to be a country where marriages don’t feel this hard, and that’s all he wants to give her, but he can’t. 

As she lays against him, she can feel the tension in his body, knowing by the way he holds her a little too firmly that he’s thinking about something. She wants to ask about what, but she doesn’t want to spoil the moment. 

They’ve both become experts at sweeping things under the rug—at sacrificing—and neither of them knows whether it’s good or not, but they’ll continue to do it. Lie causally in order to protect, not address the pain and disorder, just for moments like this, moments that feel entirely like their own. Moments that make them feel married and dedicated to one another. 

This is scene two from a marriage.


	3. the emotional illiterates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes understanding each other is hard, even when you're married--especially when you're married.

_God._ Churches and rosary beads. Bibles and sermons that go on so long your ass is numb by the end. All the agonizing faithfulness and the traumatizing tales of hellfire. Those kind, reassuring eyes and the cruel, judgmental ones. The laughter of children who know nothing, and the whispers of women who’ve learned nothing. She remembers religion, remembers the days of being dragged along to the church and sat in the pews. Remembers being made to listen to words her brain could not comprehend at such a young age, and then the scary way it felt all consuming when she got a little older. Remembers it well, despite the distance of the memory, actually. Whether she likes it or not, she _remembers_ , and on days like this, she cannot help but pray.

She isn’t sure she really believes in God; it’s just something she does. Javi had told her he did it too. Said that when things went wrong, he uttered rushed prayers and became a man of God the way he wasn’t when the gun wasn’t pointed in his direction and his coworkers weren’t dying. It was a moment of vulnerability she hadn’t coaxed out of him, just one he gave willing as they both stared at the picture of Jesus on his wall. _His_ wall. Not her wall that she gave to him to decorate to make it feel like he belonged in her space. No, it was the wall he had in _his_ apartment in _his_ DEA filled building. She had squeezed his hand and he squeezed hers back. She felt the warm metal of a wedding band press into her flesh, and she knew that things were changing.

They were, too. That was nearly two years ago, and the picture of Jesus still hangs in its spot. It’s a little more lopsided from too many slams of the door beside it, but the things before it have moved in a more notable way. The living room has been rearranged twice since, once to suit her better and the second time because Javi could not stand the way the couch hit his hip in its new place. He had said that—the way the couch hit _him_ , and she had laughed and he didn’t understand why, and they had fought a bit about trivial things. Then, they rearranged the furniture and he had pressed her against the same wall Jesus rested on and fucked her the way no holy man would ever, even despite the fact that he uttered the man’s name as he came undone.

They got a new kitchen table, too, one that was smaller and a better fit for the area. Javi was no good at interior design, but she hadn’t faulted him for it; she just made it better. Sometimes he noticed when she did, and other times he did not, but she never took offense. She was just happy to be with him, in a home they shared, and sometimes she was even relieved that he didn’t care the way she shifted the items to make it feel more homely. Sometimes he did notice and didn’t say anything, too. He just smiled softly, thinking how nice it was that this space was hers as well as his and that she knew that. Three years of marriage, and they had finally found themselves in the same place, acting like a real couple. Safety still wasn’t guaranteed, the risks still ran the same, but he could no longer worry about the way she laid unprotected in her own apartment when he wasn’t there, and he had asked her to move in.

She doesn’t feel so safe today, though. Even in the living room she has arranged, with the pillows that are hers and the tv that is his, even with Jesus on the wall and her life so incredibly aligned with the vision she had spun in her head all those nights he wasn’t there, she does not feel safe.

She’s written her husband’s death wish, a 300k reward from the Medellin Cartel for any person willing to kill him. To kill any of them, those coworkers he prays for when things get tough. She wrote it, a headline for the newspaper, to be advertised all over the country. To be broadcast. It was a great piece of work, her boss had said, a true mark of journalism, forever etched into the career she so badly wanted. A _defining_ piece.

She prays, prays and prays. Prays Javi knows the information, and hopes the entire DEA does, too. Hopes the cartel feels the same wave of anger and sickness as she does as she clutches the glass of alcohol in her hand. Hopes their throats burn raw the way hers does when she screams into the pillow beside her. Hopes their marriages feel ridden with grief and hardship, that they never rest and never get to experience the beauty of a marriage in a country they love the way Javi and her have. Hopes a lot, wishes for more, and prays again.

When Javi arrives home, she stands as soon as she hears his keys in the door, putting the glass of alcohol in her hand on the table before her. She walks towards it, the door, thinks about just opening it, but he’s already turning the knob before she can. He jolts when he sees her.

“Fuck,” he shouts and she steps back. When he realizes he’s not going to be murdered, a grin tugs at the end of his lips. His brown eyes soften with relief. “Shit, you can’t do that, baby.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies. A loaded sorry. She’s quick to wrap her frame around his, so quick that his mouth delivers a quiet “oof” as she collides into him. He kicks the door closed with the boot of his heel and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on top of hers.

“Something wrong?”

“Yes,” she replies. Transparency, openness; the communication patterns between them have even improved.

“Is this about the fuckin’ reward thing?” His body stills against hers. “Is that it, are you talking about that?”

She nods her head and he sighs. “Baby, that’s nothing. Nothing will come of it. Nobody is that stupid. You know that— _you’re_ not that stupid.”

She pulls back from his embrace, guilt still solid in her frame. “I had to write a piece about it today, as if it didn’t matter at all.”

“It doesn’t.” He shrugs. She looks at him, unconvinced. “It _doesn’t._ ”

“There **are** people that stupid.”

“No, nobody like that.”

He makes his way past her, and into the kitchen. Opening the fridge door, he grabs a beer and inspects the contents inside of it. So nonchalant and forgiving, and she’s been sat here praying for him. 

“It doesn’t feel like nothing; it feels like I work for them. They shouldn’t have made me write that.”

“You never said Pablo Escobar was a regular robin-hood, so I’m certain you’ve made no journalistic crime. You just laid out the solid facts they gave you.” His eyes glance over to her, a smile gracing his lips. “You can still win the Noble Prize for Journalism, I think. They won’t disqualify you on the grounds of domestic disturbance.”

An attempt at humor. She gives him a faint grin. “Pulitzer.”

“Hm?” he questions, taking a swig off the beer in his hand.

“That’s what most go for in journalism—Pulitzer prizes.”

“Oh well, that then. I think they reward that sort of ruthlessness, actually.” His eyes return to the inside of the fridge, and his fingers tap the top of the fridge. “There’s nothing here.”

She moves over to him and wraps her arms around his torso. She wants _**and**_ needs to feel the warmth of his being. Needs to know his solid, muscular frame is still okay and well. Needs to know it’ll still lean back into her when she wraps her smaller one around it. And it does, almost instinctively. His fingers graze her arm.

“You’re being silly,” he remarks. “You’re taking this too seriously.”

“Your life has a price tag,” she responds, shaking her head. “I think I’m allowed to be taking this seriously.”

“They won’t touch me,” he assures. “They won’t touch you, or me, or anyone in this building.”

“I don’t just stay inside this building, and neither do you,” she presses on, adamant. He’s not the only one who gets to worry—he’s just the one who’s most outspoken about it usually. Where Javi is firm and solid and sure, she is a bit more shaky and rash, and without a badge to protect her; it is right that he worries a bit more openly about her, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t fear for him. There’s a reason he’s prayed for those people he works with. Death still lingers on every street corner he rounds and in every hacienda he searches, even despite–and maybe even because–of the shiny gold badge at his hip.

“We’re alright,” he murmurs. “Don’t go back to work for a few days if you’re frightened.”

“I don’t want _you_ to go back for a few days.”

He stops grazing her arm now, and instead twists around to face her. His eyebrows furrow as he searches her face for a hint of a smile or grin, or _anything_ to tell him she wasn’t serious about that.

“There’s no way,” he responds adamantly. “I won’t do that. You know you can’t ask me to do things like that.”

He pulls away from her completely now, letting a wave of seriousness fall between them, and making distance to show it. He props himself against the corner of the other side of the kitchen, looking at her incredulously. “I’m going to be _**fine**_ ,” he repeats again. “I don’t want you to worry, and I certainly don’t want you to ask things like that, because you _know_ I can’t do them and it makes me feel bad.”

“I’m sorry,” she offers again, eyes shifting to the floor. She knows she shouldn’t have done that, but something inside of her just picks away, asking for more and more and more, never content just having him. Always more, never enough, and in between the worry and the guilt, she’s let that part of her begin to seem rational. 

She cannot help the way her heart aches at the implication of his answer, though. Even all the rational parts of her don’t like it. 

His job means more than her comfort, and he won’t give it up—not if she asks, not if she _begs_. She won’t, doesn’t ever want him to stop helping this country the way it desperately needs, but a part of her thought maybe she had meant more to him than that. It’s selfish, she knows, but sometimes love is like that; it’s angry and self-concerned, wanting nothing less than all of the other person especially when it was such an unattainable request. 

“I didn’t mean to.” She looks back up at him. “I know what you do is important and I don’t want to get in between that. I…I trust you.”

“You _are_ it,” he whispers. It’s a gentle whisper, a whisper made just for the two of them, as if someone else was listening in from the living room and he didn’t want them to hear such a sacred thing. It was a whisper for her heart, something to appeal to her the way shouting never did. But, it didn’t. She let him continue on anyways; maybe he’d feel better. 

“I do it for you just as much as I do it for the rest of this country.” He sighs, running a hand over his features. “This is something you can’t take days off from. Something—“

“Something you dedicated yourself to before you dedicated yourself to me,” she finishes, trying to sound understanding. Her words come out a bit flat, though, and there’s an undeniable sadness to them that she hates. She doesn’t want to make him feel guilty. 

She rushes to fix it. “It’s okay, Javi. I love you for that, too. I married all of you. Mr. and Mrs. Drug Enforcement Association.” 

“You are terribly good at always sounding on the edge of cruelty,” he says, hushed. It’s not hateful, carries no malice at all, even though it stings. He’s closer to her now, close enough to grab her jaw between his fingers and kiss her lips. 

“Sometimes,” another kiss, “I think,” another kiss, “You want to—“ 

Another kiss, longer and deeper. He relishes this, the way she stills in his hand and lets him access her without protesting. Even in all of her anger and sadness, she’s never denied him the affections he requests, and he hopes she knows how much that means to him. She’s a better person than he is, not consumed by bitterness and anger. He loves her, achingly. 

“I want to…?” she says against his lips. He pulls back. 

“Punish me, but I know you’re too good of a person for that. You are just miraculously bad with your words sometimes.”

“So are you,” she says, patting the hand that still cradles her face. “Like just now. _**Terrible**_.”

He leans in and kisses her again, and she lets him, even though she wants to cry. He doesn’t know how badly he can hurt her sometimes, even without intending to. 

She kisses him back passionately, though, burying all her frustrations in the way she tugs at his lip teasingly with her teeth. He moans into her mouth, and the hand that cradles her jaw presses down onto her throat. Her hand covers it, and they pull back long enough to look at each other. They don’t even have to say it anymore, it’s just another one of their quiet agreements. They are going to have sex—going to exercise the last bits of their youth before they can’t—and they will acknowledge the pain they’ve caused each other in the wake of it. This is what they do, the way they operate. Sex makes them agreeable and tired, bounds them to a place where they understand each other the way they don’t currently. They are emotionally illiterate, void of the tools to peer into one another in a way that makes communicating easier. They both build walls and speak in sentences wrapped in sadness but that sounds happy. They are human. Despite that she communicates for a living and he saves people, they fuck it all up too; this is life, this is marriage. This is still love. 

They figure it out— they figure it out in the way that he presses her into the counter and in the way she wraps her hand around his belt buckle, undoing it. They understand each other in the way that he lifts her off the ground and onto the counter, and in the way she tugs at his hair when he puts his lips back onto hers. 

They breathe each other in and she believes it’s going to be alright when he spreads her legs with his frame. He rests her on the edge of the counter and his fingers move aside her underwear, and he finds her clit without ever pulling away from her lips. She moans into mouth and he encourages more of it, letting his long fingers slide into her folds. She hears how wet she is under his touch, and she gasps when he puts two fingers in her unexpectedly, stretching her. She looks at him and he looks like a man in love, some inexplicable, beautiful glint in his eye as she lets him have his way with her. She kisses him messily, barely capturing the side of his mouth, but it does not matter. He wants it just like this. 

“Tell me what you want,” he says, his fingers forming a come-hither motion inside of her. He finds her g-spot immediately, working at it as she struggles to respond. 

“Oh,” she gasps, face flushed. She feels the familiar warmth that explodes throughout her before she reaches her peak. He pulls his finger out of her, though, disrupting it all, and she looks at him, needy.

“Please, Javi,” she begs. “Please, touch me. _**Fuck**_ me. **Anything**.”

His fingers find her clit again. She bucks her hip against his touch. “Say it louder,” he says, consumed by his desire in the way that threatens to send her over the top in and of itself. he 

“Fuck me!” she shouts, and he plants his lips on hers again, capturing the tail end of the sentence in his mouth as he licks hers. 

He undoes his pants and pushes them down, uncaring of the way they pool around his ankles because he hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet. His cock is hard and dripping with precum, and she wants nothing more than for him to fill her and stretch her, and he knows it. Perhaps they are emotionally illiterate, but physically, they’re the most well read couple in all of Colombia, he’s sure of it. 

He picks her off the counter and turns her around, making her face the wall. She holds the edge of the counter with her hands as his works to undo her skirt. Then he tugs down her underwear, and she assists him by lifting her feet so he can take them off. On his way back up, he grazes her ass with his teeth and she gasps, reaching behind her to feel him. He puts her hand back on the counter, and grabs her hips roughly, pushing her outward. His cock is teased at her entrance, and she stops breathing, waiting for him to fill her, but he moves the head of it up to her clit. 

“Javi,” she pleads, “Javi, fuck me.”

This time he listens, entering her slowly, filling her inch by inch. He wraps a hand in her hair, lifting her back slightly and putting his other hand on her hip as he develops a pace. It’s fast and aggressive, and she knows this isn’t going to be lovely and sweet, not one of those sessions where he leans forward and says “te amo, te amo, te amo” like a man enchanted. No, this will be like the nights he comes home looking particularly bothered, but without the means to say why. She feels the aggression that’s built in him, wonders briefly if it’s her who’s caused it or if it’s just everything, and then she squeezes her eyes shut, the pain of his grasp on her hair getting to her. She likes it though, doesn’t want him to stop. 

“You feel so good,” she encourages, gasping when he hits a spot that sends electricity throughout her body. He takes note of it, and does it again. “Fuck, baby.”

“You like that?” he asks and she nods the best she can. She leans back, grabbing at his wrist, and he continues at his fast pace, the grunts falling heavy from his mouth. She knows he’s close by the way his cock is twitching inside of her. Her knuckles turn white as she holds the counter. She thinks he’s going to do it, to come undone, but he surprises by pulling out and turning her around. He picks her up and she wraps her legs around his waist, and his lips fall hungrily onto her as he presses her into the fridge and puts his cock back into her. She moans into his mouth and thrust upwards against, pulling back to look at her. 

“You’re so good, Javi,” she shutters, fingers running through his hair. “Oh, fuck, baby.”

It doesn’t take much more—only two more pumps into her—and he’s releasing hot ropes of his release into her, while moaning hotly in the base of his neck. She smiles softly, happy to be the cause of this kind of emotion. 

“You didn’t cum,” he whispers against her skin. He’s sweaty and out of breath, and just coming down from his own release, but still, she is what he worries about. He kisses the skin above her collarbone. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says, holding him close to her. She presses his dampened locks down as he lays against her chest, and he wishes they could stay like this forever but his arms are beginning to ache and he can feel the substance of his release begin to leak out of her, right onto the jeans he hadn’t bothered taking off. 

He pulls himself out of her with a soft grunt and he sets her down, and she reaches behind her and grabs a towel from the counter. She wipes his cum from between her legs the best she can without getting in the shower first, and he takes off his shoes and jeans finally. 

“Shower with me?” he asks and she nods. She picks up his clothes and hers and the rag, and on the way to the bathroom she throws them in the hamper. 

She turns on the shower as he takes off his shirt and gets them towels, and he can’t believe how lucky he is. She’s gorgeous, gorgeous even after he’s had his way with her. Even more so, maybe. 

Her skin is red and he can see the beginnings of a bruise on her hip from her grip, and he just wants to kiss it. Wants to worship her and say sorry for saying no, and God maybe does want to give it all up for her. But he can’t. 

When they get in the shower together, he winces because it’s so fucking hot (he always forgets the way she tries to burn her skin off in here), but he doesn’t protest, letting it run over his aching joints.

“How was your day?” she asks, beginning to wash his skin gently with a rag. She runs it over his arms, his shoulders, then his chest, and he takes it from her, washing his neck and behind his ears. 

He shrugs, “Just like any other.” He nods over the shampoo in the corner. “Will you hand me that?”

She reaches over and grabs it for him, before taking the rag back from him and washing herself with it. He notes how remarkably tired she looks. Wonders how long she’s been like that. Wonders if he looks the same or if perhaps his way of life is more taxing in her than it is life. Aches at the thought, before putting the shampoo in his hands. “Turn around,” he tells her and she does, leaning into him. He runs his hands through her hair, spreading the liquid everywhere. She closes her eyes tightly, afraid of the soap. It makes him laugh. 

“I’m not going to get it into your eyes,” he promises, pushing them back so she can get fully under the water to rinse the shampoo out. While she does that, he spreads the liquid throughout his own hair. A quietness envelops them as they continue with the shower, and he knows it’s not the sort that’s entirely comfortable because there’s an unspoken tension between them now. Sex could prolong it, not make it dissipate. 

“I love you,” he tells her as they step out of the shower. She hands him a towel and he takes it. 

“I love you, too.” 

“Don’t worry about me, okay?” 

He rests his hands against the wet skin of her shoulders, massaging the area gently. She peers at him through the steamy mirror, in the spot she’s wiped away with her hand, as she drapes the towel around herself. 

“I can’t help it, Javi.” She shrugs. “I will always worry about you.” 

He nuzzles against her neck then, wrapping his arms around her. “I know,” he acknowledges, wishing it didn’t have to be that way. He can’t get caught in the triviality of what ifs, though—he is here now and so is she, and all he can do is his best from now on. Perhaps, though, this isn’t his best. He’ll do better, he promises to himself, because she deserves better 

This is a scene of two people who care a lot, but just don’t know how to say it, not the way they should. This is scene three of a marriage. 


	4. behave yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, distance does make the heart grow fonder.

Did he ever smell it, she wondered. Did he ever taste it? See it? Feel it? It was stronger than any of the cigarettes he constantly puffed away at, and deadlier, too. Disappointment latched onto the sacred spots, like the sheets of their bed, the crook of his neck, the shower when he wrapped his tired limbs around her body. She had begun to grow afraid it would reach her eyes, all that disappointment, and one morning when he wasn’t so busy shuffling to get to work, he would look into them and find it if he hadn’t already.

She grew so afraid of what he would see and what he would feel that she had begun to forget about how she felt and what she saw. She didn’t take into consideration the way disappointment was filling her lungs with smoke the same way the cigarettes did, or that when she kissed him in the morning before he left, the taste of it lingered long after he’d gone and she had begun to hate kissing him. 

She didn’t think about it at all, not until it lurked everywhere and she had begun to avoid coming home by working the same tedious hours he did. She didn’t question it until one night when they were watching the television, and he wrapped an arm around her, she felt everything collapse inside of her violently. 

The tears came quick and the sobs were harsh. He didn’t understand even though he wanted to and even that, the simple act of him not being to get it, disappointed her too. She loved him, but she didn’t want him the way she once had; the very sight of him reminded her terribly of all the sacrifices she was making just to be with him, and it hurt her. 

Not long after that, she decided that she had to go home. She wasn’t going to stay, but she had to give herself the time she hadn’t when the disappointment begun to rush in. She couldn’t stay in his apartment and stare at walls, and pretend that this was the marriage she wanted when it hurt her. 

It was a quiet conversation. She had tried to discuss it hurriedly with him, right before he went to work, the way they did with all things in the morning, but the words had stilled his quick body. He saw her eyes. 

Javier hadn’t been mean about it, but he hadn’t been all that kind, either. He asked a lot of questions, and tried to piece together what this meant for them. She told him it meant that she was hurt and tired and needed to go home, but that she loved him. She told him she would return, that it wasn’t over and that she didn’t want to leave him, just need to leave this, and he nodded. When she had went into the bathroom after, he stayed.

He had broke a plate against the wall in an uncharacteristic fit of anger, and then leaned himself against the counter to contemplate it all. She found him like this when she came out and she’d picked up the pieces of his anger and frustration the way she had picked up hers for months and months: silently and without complaint. 

When she was finished, he wrapped himself around her, and she noted the way her heart felt lighter. The disappointment didn’t linger. She knew she wouldn’t be here later, that this body against her was sad about it, and something inside of her, as mean and wicked as it was, felt relieved. He loved her enough to miss her and she loved him enough to leave a country she loved because it was suffocating them. This sacrifice didn’t make her despise him. 

They had sex in their bedroom each night and every morning until she left, and it was better. Through it all, they’d remained in tune with one another’s bodies, always able to communicate through loving making, but these moments felt more. She wasn’t exactly how, but they were. 

He had thrust all of his sorrows into her and touched her lovingly, and appreciated the way her figure molded against his. She kissed him more feverishly and tasted the cigarettes and gum, and like she had never done before, she leaned in close and confessed everything she felt. She told him how good he felt inside of her, how nice it was to have him as a husband, how much she would miss him and how she would think of this when she was gone. The praise fell softly against his ears and he nuzzled himself into her chest, and he told her he loved her the way he wished he had a million times before. For once, his brain and his tongue united, and he was able to give her something he’d wanted to without reserve. He said it over and over, and it meant something because of the genuine way he held her, and then he came. 

They had left each other on a Sunday. She kissed him and told him teasingly, “Pórtate bien” and he smiled a smile that reached the eyes she had watched grow tired over the years. Her heart ached, and she left because of it, knowing the time would heal what had been broken savagely by the country they both loved so much it was killing them. 

———

It has been a little over a year and she was right; the sight of Javi sitting on the same couch she’d broken down on fills her with warmth now, and the disappointment doesn’t seep into everything. 

Marriage is hard, she’s come to find out, not the straight line she’d imagined, but one that dips and curves despite all wants and expectations. She’s spent six years with Javi, and a lot of them have been difficult, but all of them were worth it for moments like this. 

He sits, looking up at her with a curious gaze, and she grins widely at him. 

“¿Qué, mi amor?”

“¿Baila conmigo?” 

Javi shakes his head, but he rises from the couch despite his refusal and takes her body against his. 

“I haven’t put on the music,” she laughs. 

“Lo sé,” he chuckles warmly against her cheek. She turns her head and kisses him gently. 

“You’re going to dance with me.”

He pecks her lips, once, twice, three times before he lets her body go in favor of the music. She can’t help but smile at the ghost of his flesh against hers as she puts on the record. He wraps himself around her as she does, nuzzling against her neck and she reaches up, running a hand through his hair as the record begins to turn. 

They sway, and he kisses her neck gently. She turns around slowly, letting his lips part from her with an inaudible warning, and then she wraps herself around him again. 

He holds her, letting the music envelope them the way it had the first night they met one another. It sinks and settles, and he realizes it’s not so awkward now. This song belongs to the woman he loves, and she rests herself happily against him. They don’t need to kiss or take off each other’s clothes to understand anything. It’s all just sweetener, perks of caring about someone as much as he cares about her. 

“I missed you,” she speaks. Her hands finds his spine and she tickles him with her gentle graze. He can hear her grin when she says, “I thought about you every day.”

“I missed you, too. Steve and I spent more time than I would’ve liked while you were gone. Probably more than Connie would’ve probably liked, too.”

“Stealing husbands, are you?” 

“No, she can have that fuckin’ hillbilly; he’s not really a substitute.”

“Javi?” 

She pulls away from him, looking into his eyes. 

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry I left.”

“Está bien.” He waves his hand in the air, dismissing her comment. “I focused pretty heavily on work after you’d gone, and I think we’re close to something now.”

“Yeah?” she perks her brows. 

He hums softly. “Yeah.”

“¿Qué eres, un CIA? Dime lo.”

“Por la mañana.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, a subtle grin on her lips. “I’m not a journalist anymore. You can etell me without having to worry I’ll go off and print it.”

“I never—“ he begins to protest but she cuts him off. 

“Yes, you did, but I’m not angry with you for it.”

“I just don’t want to, not tonight,” he deflects. “You just got back and I’ve been sitting with all that shit the whole time you’ve been gone.”

“That’s okay,” she nods. “Preferable, even.”

He laughs lightly, the biting comment not lost on him. His work has infiltrated every part of their marriage, and he wants a night off from it, the way he hasn’t had in a long time. The emotional baggage, the constant anxieties—it all has evaporated, left somewhere between the door and spot she wrapped her arms around him again for the first time. 

“Lo siento,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against her temple. “I know being married to me isn’t as easy as it could be sometimes.”

“Being married to you is easy; being married to you and the DEA and the drug cartels is not.” She lays her head back on his chest. “Don’t sell yourself short. Marrying you is one of the few things I ever felt was correct.”

He doesn’t give her an audible response to the confession, but he tilts her chin upwards and kisses her softly. She holds onto the sides of his shirt and deepens the kiss with her tongue, and they stand in the middle of the living room, kissing like new lovers, with only the expertise of their hands to remind them they know each other—and they find out they know each other quite well.

Her nimble digits undo his belt buckle and unbutton his pants when he pulls back for air, and he can’t help the way his eyes gleam with desire and love. He lets his own hands explore the canvas of her body as she works to undress him, feeling the skin along her collarbone with the pad of his thumb. It’s all smooth and warm under his. 

The way she glances up at him through her eyelashes as she tugs his jeans down makes his cock twitch. He lets hands wrap gently around her neck and she grins mischievously at him, moving her chin upwards to give him room to move room. His hand moves back, until he craps at the back of her neck. Gently, he pulls forward, pressing her flushed body against his. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, nipping at the cleavage her dress exposes to him, “I really missed you.”

She hums. “I missed you too.” 

His fingers dip below the line of her dress, cupping one of her breasts into his hand. His warm mouth licks the hardening nipple and she moans softly. His eyes look into hers and she sees it, all of his desire. Her eyes flutter shut as her own lust pulls something warm and hot inside her stomach. 

“God, Javi,” she whimpers, tugging at his hair as he presses open mouth kisses along her chest. 

“Take this off.” His fingers take the cloth of the dress in his hand. She nods fervently and he gives her space to do so, wrapping a hand around his dick and stroking it as he watches her. 

She looks down at the movement, filling the space between them quickly, letting his hand be replaced by hers. 

“Take off your shirt,” she tells him, and he does it without question, enthralled by the feel of her. All he’s felt for a year is his own hand, the same calloused palm, and so the softness of her hand makes him squirm. She takes the bead of precum on his tip, and begins to lube the rest of him with it, and he cannot help the audible moan he lets fall from his lips. 

She goes to fall to her knees, but he stops her, grabbing onto her elbow. “Lets go to bed.” He nods his head in the direction of the bedroom. 

She follows him into the room, taking in the way it makes him look perfectly single all save for the fact that her suitcase now sits in front of the closet. Before she can think too much about the state of the room, he’s pulling her down onto the bed with him. He wraps an arm around her waist, flipping her so she faces away from him, and she lets him because the way he moves quickly and aggressively makes her core ache. He’s yet to even touch her, but she can feel wetness gather between her legs just from the notion of it. 

“Talk to me?” he asks, voice deep from desire. His fingers travel down to her heat, moving aside her underwear to feel the slickness between her thighs. She arches back into him and he winces at the way her ass catches his aching cock when she does. 

“Touch me,” she tells him, letting her hand fall over his. She guides his digits up to her clit, helping him develop a pace that makes her tighten against him, focused entirely on the orgasm he’s begun to build in her. 

“God, I missed your fingers,” she tells him as she grips onto his hand, no longer guiding it. “You always do it so much better than me.”

The encouragement makes him move faster, and she gasps, moving back against him again. He ignores the way she feels against him in favor of pulling the first orgasm from her.

She collapses beautifully against him, and before his fingers even leave her, she reaches around to kiss him. 

Moving away from her lips, Javi pulls her roughly into him and turns them over. He lies on his back and lets her rest on top of him. 

“Take off your underwear,” he says and she does. Without even being asked, she spreads her legs for him. 

“You know exactly what I want, baby,” he praises. 

His hands guide his cock up to her entrance and when he begins to fill her, a soft moan falls from her lips. The stretch of him inside of her is not new, but feels it. He works himself in slowly, noticing the way her fingers grasp onto the sheets as he does so, and she clenches her teeth as she begins to feel herself take him in. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, his pelvis moving up to complete a slow thrust. He does another, going a bit faster this time, and she arches her back. His hand cups her breasts, and the other holds onto her hip. 

“Faster,” she tells him and he thrusts into her again, picking up the pace. She lets out a string of curses and he continues this rhythm. His hands move onto her legs, and he guides her, lifting them a little higher. She releases a sound he’s sure Steve and Connie will hear upstairs, and instead of invoking worry in him, he pumps into her, hoping to draw another out. 

“You take me so good,” he whispers into her ear as hips buck upwards and she groans. 

“You’re a fucking God, baby,” she tells him, and it takes everything in him to not shoot hot ropes of cum into her then. He stills against her for a moment, and she whines, moving her hips to take him in because he doesn’t. 

“Slower,” he warns. “I’m gonna come too quick if we keep going like that.”

She does it again and he groans harshly, halting her with a strong hold on her hips. 

“Don’t be like that.”

“I want you to,” she tells him. She places his hands back onto her breasts. “Fill me, Javi. Show me how much you missed me.”

He can’t deny the way everything in him wants that, and he’s too full of lust to argue. His hands grasp onto her and it takes a couple more rough thrusts into her before she feels his cock begin to twitch. Hot spurts of his cum paint her insides and he winces harshly against her neck and he rides his high out. She reaches around to run a hand through his hair. 

He huffs, chest rising and falling as he recovers. She closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his uneven breathing. She can feel the way his heart bounds against her back, that rapid thud, thud, thud she had thought about many times before tonight. His hands have yet to fall from her hips, and his lips press gentle kisses on the parts of her he can reach, and she feels perfectly content right there. 

He wraps his arms around her frame, holding her tightly. His thumb strokes the place between her breasts and her ribs as he presses his lips against her shoulder. 

“Never leave again,” he says. It comes out softly and if he hadn’t pressed his nose against the side of her face, she’s sure she would’ve missed it. It came out gentle and pleading, and as he reached down to take himself out of her, she felt everything align again. 

This is her husband, a man she loves fiercely. The gleam of sweat on their bodies is the sweat of love. The sound of silence that surrounds them is the sound of quiet understanding. The way that the hand that holds his wedding band wraps around the one that holds hers, lifting it to his lips, is the act of affection that carries a depth only they could understand. This is Colombia and this is its pulse. 

This is scene four of a marriage. It isn’t always easy, and it isn’t always this beautiful, but it always means a lot to the two who share it. 


End file.
